here lies Navarro: the one the Muses forgot
when molding this steep summer's day
from the sunlight on God's own hands.


i was trapped by the shadows of the trees in the walkway.
the mulberry bushes were my shackles which bound me
to the Divine's tampered will—swiftly they leapt
and softly they sang around my tired restrained body;
i became their playthings as they kept this poet's hand from scribbling upon scrolls with a quill or charcoal
or even his own unholy blood. i was left there to consider
my trespasses.


they left me out in the street while they bathed in the Tiber:
they saw their lover Virgil and lied with him
beneath a pomegranate tree—he licked his lips
and reached up, plucked a morsel for his wetting mouth.
nine little morsels met him there and licked their lips
of his warm juices and he called to me,
asking me if there was no greater pleasure
than agony.


they returned their robes over their shoulders,
covering their pale supple breasts and hearty thighs
as Virgil lay sleeping. they returned to me and moved their hands
through the air near my skin: temptation is my penance, it seems:
the art of deprivation while the poet stands, wanting to touch,
to feel, to kiss them. i pursed my lips but the shortest one
waved her finger at me, told me that this was supposed to be
agony: no lips would be involved.


hours passed: seemingly days
and the girls kept dancing, waving their hands about me,
licking their lips and rubbing their boney hands
over their cavernous curves. every time the crow cawed
they would return to the tree, wake the sleeping Virgil
and lie with him again. he would look at me chained by branches
to laugh at my misery. i wept with every moan
and cringed with every touch. whenever they would kiss
the Poet’s lips, they would look at me and smile.


i now lie asleep on the sidewalk, the sun beaming down
warming my skin and opening my eyes
from the brightness. i rolled over, felt my hands move freely
and my legs squirm. i leapt up, felt my feet fall firmly on the ground;
i ran and ran and ran until i stumbled upon the church.


outside St. Thomas i sat and lit my cigarette.
the wine had ventured from my blood and my head sit surreally
upon my shoulders. the bells rang above me
and mothers led their children in, hiding their eyes
from my smoke and tired hands. i looked down upon my wrists
and saw no marks: no signs of my shackle vines,
no pomegranate trees in sight. i looked up and around,
heard the arhythmic church bell’s ring
and waited for the families to rush inside. i drove my cigarette into the step
and began to write on the stone with the decaying ashes:


here lies Navarro: the one the Muses forgot
when molding this steep summer's day
from the sunlight on God's own hands.

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